


The Problem With One Night Stands

by Iron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22942075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Blurr had one perfect one night stand before the war, and he’s been looking for the minibot ever since. He doesn’t expect to find him on the Lost Light, in the little barmech with the motormouth. He’s been chasing him for too long to give up just because the little mech’s skittish and square.Swerve had thought he was over the stupid crush he had on Blurr. Then he slept with the mech. And then the mechwouldn’t leave. He’s starting to think he might be stuck with him.
Relationships: Blurr/Swerve
Comments: 17
Kudos: 83





	The Problem With One Night Stands

Blurr doesn’t usually get drunk during Wrecker reunions. There’s a reason for that - and not one that has to do with the fact that he’s a moping, sad bastard when he does. It’s because - 

“And he had the sweetest little mouth. Primus, I thought he’d suck my brain out through my spike.” Blurr whines into the counter of the bar on the _Lost Light_ , making sad little noises as he tries to illustrate exactly how good the memory of it was. “I swear if I didn’t have my spike in his mouth he got downright depressed.” 

Whirl, sitting next to him, clacks his claws together mockingly. “Yeah, yeah, we know. You’ve been going on about the same damn lay for four million years. Frag someone new why don’t you?” 

“Nothing else compares to the way that sweet little mini squirmed on my spike. Or ate out my valve. Or...” He whines again, tossing back the rest of his drink with gusto. “Do you know how many minis I’ve fragged trying to find someone just as good? Pretty sure the mini bot boards are calling me a fetishist by now.” There’s a distinct slur to his voice, and Rodimus reaches over and pushes the empty glass away, motioning to Swerve that the mech’s better off cut off. Swerve, starstruck, pours himself a glass and shuffles off to the side. 

The bar’s nearly empty; something about respecting a reunion or some slag, but it means that, once the Wreckers have settled into what they want to drink Swerve doesn’t have a lot to do when it comes to actually working. He settles in nice and tidy to his own damn part of the bar with something fancy that’s not on the normal menu in hand, listening to the stories they’re telling each other. He’s a fanbot like any mech else, but it feels weirdly intimate, listening to their conversations as the scattered warriors talk to each other. Intimate and unfamiliar, and he’s not sure he likes it, being stuck in the room listening to all these mechs talk about being brave in a war he barely fought. 

Ends up not mattering that Rodimus cut him off; someone’s always ready to hand a drink off to Blurr, it seems, and he’s completely smashed by the time the rest of the group has slipped from tipsy to drunk. Swerve’s well on his way towards that too, everything blurry and pleasant, and he doesn’t kick the mech out even after he starts clumsily wiping down counters and putting up chairs. 

Swerve lets the mech linger, still bemoaning the loss of that one perfect mini. He scrapes together enough courage to offer the racer “One last drink, on the house. A specialty.” 

Blurr lifts his helm up, optics fritzing. “Something with a little spice to it, yeah?” 

“Whatever you want, mech.” Swerve lets his hands roam over bottles of engex and additives, plucking up two cups and a collection of bottles. A splash of something sweet, a dash of something not, a long pour of something hot enough to singe the top of a mouth, a sprinkle of lead acetate for sweetness. He makes up two, because he’s just stupid enough to want to have a drink with his favorite racer of all time, even if the mech had been so annoyed by him that he’d given him a fake comm number. 

The drink goes down smooth, just the right balance of spicy-sweet, followed by the burn of engex. Blurr is staring at him with flickering optics, and he’s so _close_... 

“I’ve got an oral fixation.” He says in a rush, swallowing down the rest of it in two big gulps. “And I’m a minibot. Heard you - yeah. Minibots.” 

Blurr throws back the rest of his drink and stands, swaying on his peds. 

Then the engex hits, and everything goes a bit dizzy. 

— 

Swerve wakes up under the table in his bar, staring up at a bit of scratched metal where someone had decided to graffiti what looked like an image of Ultra Magnus taking a huge fake spike up the aft, and a miriad of different shades of gum. Afts. He has to clean that. 

His helm aches with the remnants of overcharge. So does his interface array, which says nothing nice about what he did last night. His limbs and chest are buzzing with excess charge from... something. He’s not sure what. Usually when he’s hung over he feels like all the energy’s been sapped _out_ of him, not increased. Maybe he tried to spark frag a battery last night? Not the first time he’s shoved his spark into whatever available power source he could find. 

When he tries to sit up he realizes there’s a weight across his torso. A heavy one. Which means he spark fragged - and array fragged - some mech while overcharged. Not exactly unfamiliar behavior for him, but he’d kind of thought he was done after the last time he’d done this. 

He shoves the mech’s arm off his waist and sits up. The world lurches. His tank churns. He swallows down the urge to purge as he scoots out from under the table. Not from the fragging - he’s pretty happy he’s scored, even if he doesn’t want to look at the poor mech he’d managed to trick into fragging him last night - but there’s a reason he doesn’t get overcharged as much as other mechs on the ship do. The aftermath is always the worst. 

Swerve stands, using the table to steady himself. He keeps a hangover cure in the back of the bar for mornings like this, though usually it’s for mechs other than himself. He manages to shuffle his way behind the bar without waking up his partner, fingers fumbling as he pulls the mason jar out from under the bar top. The smell itself is noxious when he opens it - bitter, acidic, tainted by salt and iron shavings - almost makes him purge, but two swallows calms his churning tank. 

His partner for last night apparently isn’t so lucky; he hears them wrenching almost as soon as he’s put the jar down on the counter. Swerve stares into space, trying not to think about how he’s going to have clean that up now. Purged fuel isn’t uncommon in the bar, but that doesn’t make it pleasant to clean up. 

He’s about to offer up his mason jar when the mech crawls out from under the table. When _Blurr_ crawls out from under the table, wobbly and still probably a little overcharged. 

“Um.” Swerve stares. 

Blurr stares back. “You remember last night, right?” 

“I remember making you a drink. And I remember...” He pauses. “Sparks. And promising to bond to you.” 

It sounds familiar. Swerve tries not to think about how compromised he had to be to promise to bond to _Swerve_. “I’m not holding you to that, mech. I’ve got something here. Drink it, it’ll make you feel better. Seems to work on most of us, anyways, I know you usually take a specific fuel blend, advanced engines and all -“ 

While he’s talking Blurr stumbles up to the countertop, optics hazed as he lifts the jar to his mouth and tries to drink the whole damn jar. He probably needs it. Swerve is just starting to remember how much he had to drink that night. A mech with a metabolism like his isn’t resistant to overcharge, and he must have been massively overcharged to be suffering a hangover like he is. 

“Sorry about last night. It won’t happen again.” Swerve looks at the mess he’d left behind the bar, sighing. He’d be cleaning up until the bar opened for the night, with this sort of mess. 

“And if I wanted it to happen again?” 

“No need to humor me.” 

“I’m not.” The mech slumps his way into a chair, looking utterly exhausted. “You’re really, really good in the berth. Did you know that?” 

“No.” Most people - well. They have their own opinions of him, and few of them are positive. He’s gotten used to people groaning when they realize he’s part of the group. There’s a reason he likes being a bartender, and it’s not just because he likes making drinks. People _have_ to talk to their bartenders. “C’mon, mech, you’d better go find where you were _actually_ supposed to spend the night and get cleaned up.” 

Blurr is staring at him with too-bright optics, engine revving softly. “Right, right. I’m covered in purged fuel.” He doesn’t move for a long moment. Swerve tries to distract himself by cleaning until the mech leaves, barely able to breathe until he’s gone. 

Memories from the night before start coming back to him in bits and pieces; Blurr kissing him. Blurr pulling him under the table. More. 

Swerve drops his helm to the counter top and groans. He’d fragged up. He’d fragged up so bad. 

So much for getting over the mech.


End file.
